A Bedtime Story for a Madman and a Queen
by sillythings
Summary: Moriarty stops by to tell Molly a bedtime story. Moriarty/Molly/Sherlock.
1. Chapter 1

_**This is not what I was aiming for with this story, but this is how it came out—less sexy and darker than I intended. Constructive criticism welcome!**_

_It was a dark and stormy night._ Molly slowly opened the door to her flat, expecting the rush of a ravenous, lonely Toby yowling for his kibble and an ear scratch. She'd been away for nearly 24 hours between a long shift at the morgue and a brief stopover at 221B. Sherlock had been remarkably eager to pull her into his bed and ravage her, and though he'd initially asked her to stay the night, he'd quickly shooed her out the door when a text from Lestrade lit up his phone. By the time John had been summoned to assist in the latest case, she had on her shoes and was heading home. Molly supposed she wouldn't see him for the next day or so unless the case brought him to her morgue or lab. If she were honest, it stung a bit that the thrill of the chase was preferable to a cuddle between the sheets with her, but it was probably for the best. She was tired. She felt raw and exposed, and along with the joy of finally being with the man she loved for so long, there was the feeling of being overwhelmed by emotion, both his and hers. It was sometimes best to put a little distance between them afterwards.

How long had she pined for Sherlock? How many times had she imagined what it would be like to be in his arms, to be the sole focus on those intense, blue eyes. Be careful what you wish for, Molly smiled to herself. Sherlock had finally given her his attention, his love and it was an intense as any activity he undertook. The lovemaking had left her with a warm ache in her bones, and strange sweetness in her heart. Tears had threatened when they lay spent—naked and open to his scrutiny, she felt stripped to her very soul as he gazed down at her, dropping kisses over her cheeks, her neck, her collar bone. She felt a bit like moth consumed by the flame. It burned, but what a lovely light!

Molly closed the door behind her, turning the lock, "Toby?" she called. Odd. He would normally be all over her by this point. She flipped the switch of the table lamp in the foyer and gasped at the sight of the dark-eyed man sitting in the armchair in her sitting room, a contented Toby in his lap.

"You!" she gasps. She cannot even scream. The shock is too great. He cannot be here. He cannot. Her mouth works, but no sound comes from her throat.

"Molly?' Jim's voice is soft, pitched high.

Her heart beats rapidly in her chest. There isn't enough air suddenly and she feels sick to her stomach. No, no, no…she cannot possibly be expected to handle this.

"You can't be here. You shot yourself in the head! You can't be here!" she was whispered hysterically, trying to convince herself more than him. Though his eyes were dark and haunted, his lips quirked up sardonically.

"Well, obviously, I am here and I am not dead. I thought you were cleverer than that Molly. After all, you were the one who helped me manage it," Jim responded. Molly's eyes went wide. She was going to faint. She was. She sank to the floor, her back against the wall and put her head between her knees. Deep breaths. Deep slow breaths. Her eyes are squeezed tight against the encroaching blackness.

She heard rather than saw him stand, Toby giving a short mew of displeasure as he was dumped unceremoniously on the floor. Jim crouched before her, brushing a cool hand over her hair, stroking the back of her head as her face remained pressed against her knees.

"Hey," he is gentle, cupping her chin, "hey, look at me." She lifts her head and her warm brown eyes stare fearfully into his black ones. He smiles, still gentle, still kind, "it's just me, Jim. It's okay."

"What do you want?" she asks and can't keep the quiver out of her voice. She's afraid, so afraid, but why? She's never been afraid of Jim. She _dumped_ Jim. Moriarty—that shadowy monster, yes, he was terrifying, but Jim—Jim who watched television with her. Jim who knew how to stroke Toby's furry tummy just right. Jim who giggled at her jokes and brought her tea and made her cheese toast the morning after he spent the night in her bed. Jim who came to her weeping, just a few short hours before Sherlock came to her, asking her to draw a bag of his own blood, asking her for a few bone fragments, asking her how to fake a head wound, how to stop the pulse. _The game was too much_. He just wanted to _get away, Molly. Get away. I can't keep this up. Help me escape. I'll be good, I promise_.

"Molly, molly…" his voice is a caress, "I need your help." No, not again. She shakes her head slowly.

"No, Jim, no. I can't. I can not. Please don't—" Molly protests as he raises a finger to her trembling lips.

"Shh. No, no. I'm not asking for anything difficult. I've missed you, Molly" and he smiles, and it's a mad smile with tinged with a genuine affection. She can feel it. He _has_ missed her. He crouches down so he can be at her level more comfortably. Molly rears back, but the wall stops her. She's caught.

Jim's eyes are searching her face, and though he continues to stroke her hair gently, his face twists suddenly and his nostrils flare as he breathes her in. "What have you been up to?" he asks wonderingly. He breathes in again, closing his eyes. "Who have you been with? You stink of him." His eyes fly open, and he gazes down at her, a half smile forming on his lips, "No. Noooo. Really? You finally got him." He sits back on his heels and gives her an appraising look. "Well, Miss Hooper, I underestimated you… and him. Well done."

He leans in again, his lips brushing her ear and hisses with a hot breath, "and how is it? Everything you imagined it would be?"

"Don't." She cannot stop the tears in her voice, "Don't mock me. Whatever you do to me, however you want to hurt me, don't mock me."

"Hurt you? When have I ever hurt you?" he looked honestly surprised. "And I'm not mocking you. I don't like it when people laugh at other people. Ask my old schoolmate, Carl. Or don't rather. He's dead, you know." The sick feeling rolled through Molly's belly again at his little laugh.

"Dear girl, you managed to get what the most cunning and practiced dominatrix in the country could not coax from him. How did you manage that?"

"I—I don't know. Jim, please—"

"Silly question. I know how you managed it. You got me, didn't you? And I was trying to play gay. You are a very skilled professional—you know your way around the human anatomy" The grin that follows that statement is cruel, jealous, "and how do I compare to him?" Molly starts to shake.

"I—I don't know. It's different. I didn't even know who you were….then," Molly fights another wave of nausea.

"What's to know? I was Jim. I am Jim. Not gay, by the way." Jim smiled down at her, "I think you saw me very clearly. You like your men clever, strong and a little bit bad—maybe more than a little bit." His voice shifts to the goofy lilt he used as the IT worker, "Molly Hooper didn't have a lot of respect for Jim from IT. " His voice changes again to a silky purr, " but I think Molly Hooper liked James Moriarty quite a bit, and you know that."

Did she? She did. Silly Jim did not appeal, but when Moriarty had pinned her to the sofa after going through a bottle of wine and an episode of Glee, his dark eyes searching her face, reading her secrets, the rush of power thrilled her, and she responded by taking him apart piece by piece with her eyes, her mouth, with the soft warm slide of her own body against his. She was a skilled anatomist and she showed him how he was made, just like every other ordinary human being on the planet, showed him how nicely he fit with her own extraordinarily ordinary self. Yes, she'd played a little game of doctor with Moriarty—even without fully realizing it, and she almost thinks she won. Why else would he be here now?

"Is this about Sherlock?" she gave a desperate laugh. "Of course, it is. Everything is about Sherlock. Leave him alone, don't you touch him." She straightens, shoving Jim back from her. She suddenly feels ice cold. It's either shock or rage that fills her now. "What do you want, Jim? Are you going to kill me to get back at him for fooling you before? I'm pretty sure that I count at least as much as Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade—still not sure if I'm as important as John yet, but we're getting there." She stands up and he follows. She makes to break for the door, but he grasps her tightly, hauling her back to him, pinning her arms down.

"If you are here to kill me," she says with a gasping sob, gulping air, "it will be because of me. I'm not just an accessory in this game between the two of you. Just leave him alone." If he was going to hurt her, let's get it over with. She'd rather not put off the inevitable. Her body was tensed to spring again.

Jim's showed his teeth in a sudden flash of white. "For once," he says with a strained laugh, "I don't give a damn about Sherlock. Well, that's not completely true. The game was played, but it was a draw. I destroyed his world. He destroyed mine. He's rebuilding and now it's my turn to rebuild, but I'm tired Molly. Tired of spinning webs, empire building. I told you that before when I needed to disappear. I just—I think I need to stop being the spider. It's boring. In the end, even the job of being a criminal mastermind is just a grind. I think I'd like to try something simpler." He relaxes his hold on her and leans against her heavily, face in her neck.

"I sometimes thought, in another time, another place, I would very much like to put my brown-eyed babies in you, make you the missus of my little castle. Sunday roasts. Going to the park with the kids. So ordinary, but how often is that ideal attained. It's as much of a fairy tale as anything. Could take quite an extraordinary person to pull that off." He says all of this into the silky skin of her neck. She can feel his lips on her collar bone, so close to where Sherlock had branded her with his kisses just hours before. She shivered.

Molly gapes, uncomprehending, twisting her neck to look down at him. "You—You're not asking me to marry you?" He was insane. Anything was possible.

Moriarty snorts at the idea, "No. But in another life? Another story, maybe. I like to imagine the possibilities." He smiles at her again, "why haven't you screamed yet? Your neighbors would surely hear. Doesn't the elder Mr. Holmes have you under strict surveillance yet?"

Molly's head is spinning again. Why hasn't she? Even her one attempt to get away was feeble, at best.

"Mmmm, mmm, mmm. Miss Molly. I think you've missed me, too." He pulls her to the armchair where he had been sitting before and takes her onto his lap. She perches, tense, waiting for him to continue.

"I want to tell you a story. It's the story of not seeing the beauty within, underestimating a woman's potential—"

"I swear," Molly hisses with sudden unexpected violence, struggling against him again, "if you compare me to the ugly duckling, I will flay you alive. I know how to do it too." Where had that come from? Dear little Molly. She'd never been so sensitive, so aggressive before. Of course, she had not been through terrorist ex-boyfriends or faked suicide plots the last time they'd sat together like this. That could change a person.

"I know you do, darling, and that's why I love you. You'll find, however, that I'm a bit livelier than your usual victims—but no, it is a story of an ordinary girl, woman really though most were too stupid to see what a woman she was, who became a queen. " He paused for a moment, shaking his head as if trying to clear the cobwebs.

"Wait. There are so many ways to go with this. Let me start again, have you heard the story of Rumpelstiltskin?" he looks at her expectantly.

Molly nods, and tries to swallow with a dry throat.

"Settle back. Daddy's going to tell you a new version". He pulls her against his chest, gently but insistently pressing her head until rests on his shoulder. She can smell the soapy freshness of him, mixed with the natural smell of his skin. His voice is sweet as he begins. She should be kicking and screaming, but he was so familiar. She could feel his heart thundering in his chest. He was more upset than he was letting on. Yes, she liked him quite a bit once. Despite her mind screaming at her to flee, her body remembered the warm safety of his arms, the hot press of his mouth. She relaxed ever so slightly into his embrace. Logically, it was best to let him have control of the situation. It was when Jim lost the control that he was most likely to strike. And there was Sherlock, she had to keep him away from Sherlock. Keep Sherlock safe.

"There once was a beautiful young girl who was put in a very dangerous position due to the pride of a man. He forces her to spin, spin lies into gold, lies into truth. He forces her to spin the lies because if she does not, the people she loves will surely die. You see, she's a bit nobler than the original girl who just needed to save her own life. I love these old tales, so many variations on the theme."

He pulls Molly closer, his hand skimming her thigh before clasping her hand in his own. His mouth is at her ear again.

"But where is Rumpelstiltskin for this dutiful girl?" Jim's voice is rich and melodic—he would have been a talented storyteller with that changeable voice. "Who has helped her spin her golden web of lies? If it were not for him, she would not have been given such an opportunity to spin for the king. He helps her by putting the story into motion. "

Truly frightened of this man holding her in his arms, Molly still cannot stop herself from interrupting, "But, doesn't that make him the father who started the lie in the first place then and not Rumpelstiltskin? No one helped me with my lies to protect Sherlock. And if I'm spinning, doesn't that make me the imp?" She pulled back to confront him, something in the far reaches of her mind screeching that she is insane, don't encourage him!

"Does it? Maybe. Who said we were talking about you anyway? The threads of these old tales do get tangled up, don't they? Where is the beginning, middle and end? Don't worry. A spider like me is very good at keeping the threads under control. At least I used to be…" he trails off, abstracted for a moment.

She sits on the madman's lap, trapped by his arms, unwillingly fascinated as he picks up the tale again.

"The king is very pleased with the girl. She has proven herself worthy of him, and he gives her what she has always dreamed of. She is his queen, and in due time she gives birth to a handsome baby boy, when the imp comes back to claim his payment for helping her get what she had always wanted."

Molly stayed silent. What was the price he wanted her to pay? She stayed tense and still in his arms, mind spinning, waiting for him to finish the story.

"But she couldn't give up her baby boy! She begged for him to leave her boy alone, her king alone, her boy…" he trailed off as if confused, before shaking his head. "Who is your boy, Molly? Who do you want to keep?"

Molly licked her lips and whispered, "Sherlock."

"That's right. He is just a boy, isn't he? At least when it comes to love. I tried to school him. Threatened to kill his surrogate family. Let his brother torture me. Gave him the best whore money could buy. Nothing. But you, yes, you are raising your little man up aren't you?" He pressed his nose to her shoulder, her chest, "yes, I can tell how eager that boy is." Molly shuddered as Jim began to caress her waist, slipping a hand under her jumper to find the smooth, soft skin of her belly.

"Do you want to keep your boy?" Jim asks quietly. Molly nods. "Rumpelstiltskin is not without heart. He's going to give you a chance. Do you know what you need to do?"

Molly nods.

"What's my name, Mrs. Queen?"

"Is it Richard?"

"That's not my name."

"Is it Jim?"

"Mmm. Sometimes." He departs briefly from the script, fascinated with tracing her exposed navel with a fingertip.

"Is it Moriarty?"

Jim smiles, "The devil told you that." He presses a little kiss to her cheek.

"How does the story end?" she asks quietly, not wanting to break the hypnotic spell stroking her skin seems to have put on him.

"Oh, the queen lives happily ever after with the king who threatened to murder her and Rumpelstiltskin flies out the window on a wooden ladle. "

She wrinkles her nose and frowns.

"You don't like that? Other versions have the little man tear himself apart in a rage at having lost to the queen. And as I seem to have left my ladle at home, there's really only one way for this to end, but I will have my payment before I go."

"I guessed your name though, and I don't have a baby for you to take, I'm afraid." She's gone through terror and out the other side. She's almost pert in her response.

"No, but I'll settle for doing the thing that makes babies," leers Jim.

"I'm sorry, what?" Was she really so surprised by the request. The caress of her belly was clearly meant to be just the beginning.

"Well, it's not like we haven't done it before. I've missed you, Molly. I need you to help me finish my story. I'm tired. It's time to go to bed and then sleep. Sleep forever." His face fell, and his black eyes became sparkling, damp. He looked exhausted.

"Yes, the queen lives. So does the king. And the baby. It's poor Rumpelstiltskin that meets his end. At his own hand, though I wouldn't mind a little help with that. Not too keen on pain at this point in life."

Molly sits stunned. Is he truly asking her to do what she thinks he's asking her to do?

And then his mouth was on hers, his lips were soft and warm as his arms came up to cradle her. She pulls away, grasps his face and forces him to look at her. He has that grinning, manic gleam in his dark eyes as he meets her gaze.

"This isn't really about Sherlock?" She can't help but ask. Of course it is about Sherlock. Everything is about Sherlock. At least for her. She has to keep him away from Sherlock.

"No. This is about me being ready to stop, and you, you talented little angel of death." He sighs heavily in exasperation, "Look, will it help speed things along if I tell you that I'll kill him and everyone he loves unless you do as I say "

"Will you?" She's through the rabbit hole (there's another story reference for you Molly, she thinks wildly. Just stop—she didn't need any more fairy tales at the moment).

"No. I'm done with that game. Booooring!" He trills, " but if it makes you feel better about what we're about to do, okay, yeah. Sherlock's life is on the line unless you give me what I want."

"What are we about to do?" Her hands have dropped from his face and she is wringing them. She's being coy. She knows what he wants. If she's honest, there is part of her that has wanted this, too. She looks deep into the wounded, dark eyes of James Moriarty and feels a rush of pity and something not unlike love, care, concern. The poor man. Despite it all. The poor, lonely man.

"What do you want?" she asks gently.

"You."

She gasps as he suddenly catches her mouth with his own again, his tongue sliding into her open mouth, tangling with her own.

By the time they have moved into her bedroom and fallen onto the white sheets of her bed, she has tears trickling down her cheeks as she holds the broken man in her arms, grieving for his genius turned sour, sad, despite it all, to see his story ending. And then he was moving over her, moving in her and it was fire, but she was not being consumed by his flames, she was burning brightly as the golden tale he spun around her as he turned her into a queen. Burning away the dross and revealing the hard, bright metal that had always been beneath.

Molly cuddles her little girl in her arms, stroking her working cheek as she nurses enthusiastically, her little rosebud mouth stretched wide. The baby gazes up at her with warm, brown eyes—Molly's own looking back at her. A heavy gold band, set with diamonds sparkles in the light as Molly strokes her baby's smooth dark hair and presses a kiss to the dimpled little hand. Molly's heart felt a sharp, sweet stab as she gazed at her baby—a little Molly, even the nose was hers, though now at four months old, Molly could finally see that there was something of the father in the long fingers and the tilt of her eyes. No paternity tests. She'd been adamant—despite Mycroft's insistence and John's subtle, well-meaning pressure. Just to make sure—that there was no cuckoo in the nest, so to speak. Molly meets Mycroft's cold angry eyes and John's hurt remonstrating glances with a proud, stubborn tilt of her head. The old, overly compliant Molly was gone forever—died the night she helped put Jim Moriarty to bed once and for all. She was finished with bowing before men and their requests and their games. Sherlock silently obeyed Molly's wishes, standing firm against his brother and his friend. He was her knight, her king, her protector and he stood guard for her and the little damsel in her arms—what his feelings on the matter were, he wouldn't say aloud, but she knew. This would be his daughter regardless of what time may reveal, because this was Molly's daughter, and Molly was his and only his and only ever would be his, even if she had briefly belonged to someone else. He and Molly controlled the story now, whatever the cold facts may be. And they would live happily ever after.


	2. Chapter 2

Gretchen Holmes knew she was clever. At nine-years-old, she regularly out performed much older children in her mathematics courses. Her French accent was perfection according to Madame, and while her violin instructor rather despaired over her technique (her little brother Timothy was the musical prodigy it seemed), she was competent—_perhaps the violin isn't your instrument, _Mummy consoled her when she felt a pang at being left out when Timothy played duets with Daddy on those evenings that Daddy wasn't out late on cases or lost inside his mind palace. She wasn't without musical talent. Gretchen _did_ have a lovely voice. Daddy called her a "little Nightingale" when she sang for him while they built wooden models or pinned shining beetles to cotton batting for further study.

That Gretchen was clever was not so surprising considering who her parents were. She was also kind, compassionate and fair—something inherited from her mother, Daddy was sure. Daddy sometimes stroked her straight brown hair and smiled, a loving soft smile that he reserved for only her and Mum and said that she had inherited her mother's warm heart. At this point, he usually directed his gaze at Timothy and wrinkled his nose at the boy, "if only your brother had been so fortunate."

Timothy would roll his blue eyes and toss his curly head at his father and poke his tongue out at his sister. At seven-years-old, Timothy was what was known as "a holy terror" according to Mrs. Hudson, who sometimes shook her head severely at the boy who delighted in hanging upside down outside of the second story window, who thought nothing drop-kicking Billy the skull (and chipping his front tooth), who thought nothing of driving the entire household to distraction so long as his curiosity was satisfied.

Despite it all, Mrs. Hudson adored Timothy, just as she adored Dad who could sometimes be accused of similar antics—the apple didn't fall far from the tree there. Mrs. Hudson also adored Gretchen because she was thoughtful and kind and polite. The girl knew she had the old woman wrapped around her finger, though she didn't push the advantage the way Timothy (and dad) did.

Gretchen knew her daddy loved her. He didn't usually say it, not to anyone, but he showed it. It was in the way he assisted her with her insect collection, in the way he cuddled her as they sat together in his chair—telling her about his latest case, just as if she were a grown up like Uncle John or Uncle Greg. It was the way he patiently helped her correct her fingering when she was practicing the violin and the way he listened to her tell about Simon at school who teased her for spending recess watching ants or carefully cupping a grasshopper in her hands, feeling the delicate scratch of its legs on her palm. Simon called her "Bug-eyes" (Her dark- brown eyes were large and round) and "Sticky"—as in the stick-insect (she was rather lanky, all knees and elbows with a recent growth spurt. Mrs. Hudson was determined to fatten her up). However, when the teasing escalated to Simon pulling her braid, _hard_—hard enough for tears to come to her eyes— and pushing her down in the play yard, Mummy stepped in. She's said quietly and firmly in her sweet voice—"Take care of it, Sherlock." And he did.

Gretchen never knew exactly what Daddy did, but it wasn't long after Mummy's request that Simon had to stop going to her school. His father had done something very bad with other people's money and now he was in jail and Simon and his family had to move away. At least that's what Mummy told her when she asked one night at bedtime. Mummy often worked late, but she always had time to tell Gretchen a story before bed. Gretchen loved stories. She excelled at literature and writing—not something her dad had ever been especially good at, despite his many talents. And Mummy was, quite frankly, an atrocious speller, at least if it wasn't a scientific or medical term. Gretchen loved her fairytales, had an enormous tome of them that she would beg her Mummy to read to her each night. Daddy always refused. He'd tell her about new scientific research or the art of observation. He'd tell her about interesting things he'd observed that day and how he memorized them—he was teaching her how to build her own "mind palace." Hers was hardly a cottage yet, but she was getting the hang of it. Sometimes he might tell her pirate tales—historical accounts, not fairy tales, but they were close. Other times, he told of his childhood, like how he'd once pantsed Uncle Mycroft during a Christmas party where aunts, uncles and cousins were in attendance. Those were some of the best stories. But he never would read her a fairy tale.

Uncle Mycroft—sometimes Gretchen thought Uncle Mycroft didn't like her much, nor Mummy neither. She wouldn't go so far as to say that he _hated_ her or anything, but she knew he loved Timothy more. She sometimes thought Uncle Mycroft _might_ respect her insofar as a grown man could respect a child, but he had a way of staring at her face, her eyes, so hard, so cold. She felt a little like one of her insects under Daddy's microscope. Once she was sitting next to Daddy during one of Uncle Mycroft's not infrequent visits to 221B. His eyes had flicked between Dad's face and hers, searching for _something_, but she didn't know what. A line had appeared between his eyebrows and he looked almost angry or sad or both. Dad was angry for some reason.

"Stop it now, Mycroft!" he'd been harsh, almost yelling. Dad yelling wasn't unusual—he yelled quite a lot about different things—being bored, Timothy messing up his socks, Mummy using the last of the formaldehyde—but this was different and it made her feel shivery to hear his tone.

"Apologies, Sherlock. The truth is in the interpretation, not the facts, as you have said. Forgive me for attempting to deduce the facts." He smiled, or at least his lips turned up, "I am not completely convinced that I was wrong when I said caring is not an advantage. I do hope you are sure of what you are doing."

"It's been ten years, Mycroft. Let it go." Daddy's voice was cold and angry. And that was the end of that. Uncle Mycroft stood to leave and then he did a strange thing. He laid his hand on Gretchen's head, "Dear little girl. You have a father who loves you very much. Do keep that in mind," and he left, swinging his umbrella as usual. That night in bed, after telling Mum about the strange thing Uncle Mycroft had said and done, Mum told Gretchen a beautiful story, made just for her, about a golden queen and her great-hearted knight and a broken man with a sliver of ice in his soul who did great evil but still managed to produce the most beautiful things. It seemed cobbled together from many other fairy stories, but it was still new and just for her. Gretchen knew without a doubt that her Mummy loved her.

Uncle Greg told her stories sometimes. His were funny and full of jokes, usually, and Uncle John, ah! If she ever wanted to hear a story about dad, Uncle John's were the best, though sometimes she felt that Uncle John wasn't quite comfortable with her. He and Timothy seemed to speak the same language, and whenever Uncle John and Aunt Mary came by, Timothy would be stuck to Uncle John like glue. Gretchen tried not to feel hurt by this, and Mummy and Aunt Mary explained that it was a boy thing, and Uncle John really didn't know how to deal with little girls, but that didn't seem right because Aunt Mary and Uncle John had a little girl called Susannah, though she was still a very little girl, only 4 years old. Mum said, well that explains it then. He didn't know what to say to big girls who were growing up so fast! Sometimes she felt Uncle John's eyes on her, a little bit like Uncle Mycroft sometimes looked at her, though it didn't seem cold, just curious. Sometimes she thought Uncle John seemed offended when he looked at her, like she'd hurt his feelings. She made a special effort to be good for Uncle John, and mostly he was kind and loving.

There was one day, though, when it seemed that Uncle John was terrified of her, and it really wasn't fair. It was Timothy's fault if it was anyone's. Or blame Toby for not being there. Recently, it had been discovered that a mouse or two had invaded the kitchen of 221B. Old Toby had died recently, and apparently, he'd been keeping the mouse population at bay. Traps had been set, and one afternoon, after school, Gretchen and Timothy had discovered that one of the traps had done its work. A mouse was caught, back broken, but still alive and squeaking terribly. Gretchen was shocked by the rage and the life that was still in the broken creature. Timothy leaned over the ruined little thing, fascinated by its struggles.

"Hey, Gretchen," he piped excitedly, "fetch the stop watch. Let's time how long it takes it to die." His ice blue eyes were alight with the idea of the experiment. Gretchen felt sick. She didn't mind death, exactly. Mummy cut up dead people. Daddy's job often required him to figure out why or how people died. Billy the skull, chipped tooth and all, sat on the mantel. And while it didn't happen often, Gretchen had seen body parts, a lung, a brain—always carefully packaged and preserved, on Daddy's work table (Mrs. Hudson sometimes told horrible stories of heads and feet in the fridge, but that didn't happen anymore, and Mummy assured Gretchen that the refrigerator where she kept her yoghurt and grapes was brand new and had never chilled body parts). So, death didn't bother her really, and while she herself had pinned insects, that was very different from seeing this warm, furred mouse give off dying shrieks, its little body twisted in the trap.

"No," Gretchen told her brother, who was now poking at the mouse with the eraser end of a pencil, "the experiment would be flawed. We don't know when the trap got him. The data would be off." She pulled the pencil out of Timothy's hand, "Don't. You don't need to torture it." Timothy was affronted.

"I'm not torturing it! I was investigating," he leaned down again. Gretchen made a decision. Going to the bookshelf, she retrieved her heaviest book, Grimm's Fairytales. She returned to the kitchen, placed the book inside a plastic baggie she found in a side drawer, and came back to where Timothy was eyeballing the mouse through their dad's magnifying glass. She pushed her brother aside. She raised the book high over her head and with all her strength, she brought it down on the mouse, ending its struggle.

Timothy was outraged, "What'd you do that for! I was going to watch it die! I've never seen that before. Toby was stiff by the time we found him." He shoved his sister's shoulder and she fell with a thump on her bottom. She shoved him back.

"It was suffering, you little monster!" she hollered. The thud of the book made her feel ill, but at least the squeaks had stopped. It wasn't hurting anymore. She felt a little shaky, but reminded herself that it was a rodent, a nasty little thing that had been eating holes in the cereal boxes and gnawing on the apples in the fruit bowl. Timothy was about to launch himself at her when he was brought up short by the appearance of Daddy and Uncle John staring down at them from the doorway.

Dad appeared very calm. He walked over to where the children sat on the floor, and hunkering down lifted the book to peer beneath. He glanced at Gretchen and quirked an eyebrow at her.

"Efficient and merciful. I commend you on your quick thinking." He took the book out of the baggie and handed it to her. "Go place this back on the shelf. I know it's your favorite." She took the book from her Daddy and stood up. He looked up at her from where he was crouched next to Timothy and what was left of the mouse. Dad gave her one of his soft smiles, "It's fine, Gretchen. Now put the book up. Timothy will fetch a dissection tray and we'll see what we can learn from this." She smiled back at her father with relief and he reached out briefly to squeeze her hand.

She turned to leave but Uncle John was blocking the exit. He seemed to be rooted to where he stood and he was staring at her with—dismay? She saw him swallow hard and his eyes, those friendly blue eyes, were looking at her so hard. Gretchen felt cold and prickly as he stared down at her.

"Uncle John?" She asked, not certain what she was asking. Please move out of the way? Why are you looking at me like that? Why aren't you disgusted with Timothy who wanted to prolong the suffering? Any and all of those questions were implied, but Uncle John didn't answer. He just nodded and moved out of her way so she could replace her book on her shelf. She hesitated to return to the kitchen where her father and brother were scooping up the remains of the mouse she had killed—but she hadn't really killed it! The trap had killed it, and she hadn't set the trap. Dad did. So, really, the death of the mouse was all on Dad's head, not hers. She just helped it along. Gretchen returned to the kitchen, heading to the sink to wash her hands, and she caught a fragment of conversation between dad and Uncle John that they broke off when they were aware she was behind them.

"Do you really know what she's capable of—especially now that she's older? That was a rather disturbing display. I don't know, Sherlock, that seemed—" Uncle John was saying when his father cut in smoothly.

"It _seemed_ to be a difficult and compassionate act," Daddy said firmly, looking up at Uncle John. "I'd say she's remarkably, and fortunately, just like her mother. Such strength and empathy is rare, don't you think?" He noticed Gretchen standing and staring, and beckoned her over. He stood up and placed one strong arm around her thin little shoulders.

"Well done, Gretchen. Let's help Timothy satisfy his curiosity and then you'll have quite a story to tell mum when she gets home. A mouse autopsy! Perhaps you and mum can compare notes." She grinned at her dad and hugged him tight—he wasn't always good with words, but he always made her feel like he understood. Dad was the _best_ dad, such a _good_ man. He may not like fairytales, but he was her knight in shining armor. She was a lucky girl to have him for a daddy.


	3. Chapter 3

Gretchen and Timothy Holmes were fighting over leg room on the sofa. The fact that she was sixteen years old and he fourteen, nearly fifteen, did not mean that they could not engage in childish behavior. Engaging in childish behavior was usually unavoidable when Timothy was around. Both were long-legged and coltish—lanky was the word for Timothy, though Gretchen was finally slim rather than skinny. Adolescence was giving her something in the way of-well, maybe not curves, but she wasn't a flat board anymore. Considering Mummy's bust line, she didn't hold out much hope for curves, but at least she didn't look like a boy anymore.

At any rate, there was not room on the sofa for two nearly grown teenagers both to stretch out their legs comfortably, and so as with many things, they were struggling with each other for dominance. They argued over television programs. They argued over who got to use Daddy's microscope first. They competed with each other to see who made it upstairs the fastest. Who got the biggest piece of cake from Mrs. Hudson. Who earned the highest grades in school (Gretchen was coming out ahead there but that was only because Timothy would refuse to do the homework if he deemed it beneath him). Timothy rolled his eyes when she made the violin squawk and then played the same piece perfectly and twice as fast. She placed a large (non-venomous!) spider on his pillow and watched as it tickled him awake by crawling on his face—_Time to get up, sweetie!_ His screams woke the whole house. It was delightful. And on and on and on. _Just your average sibling rivalry,_ Dad assured Uncle John. _Nothing compared to Mycroft and I_, he grinned wickedly. Uncle John shook his head. Mrs. Hudson alternately hugged them or scolded them. Mummy rolled her eyes or just looked at them both with wonder in her eyes, as if she were perplexed that both of these strange rivals had come from her womb.

They did love each other, though Gretchen thought that it could be a bit one-sided at times—_selfishness, thy name is Timothy Holmes_-she often thought dramatically. She wasn't giving in without a fight over her leg room though. She was there first. A quick motion, and she caught Timothy around his waist with her legs and by twisting suddenly (her martial arts classes were paying off!) she had Timothy head over heels on the floor. The sofa was hers.

"Off you pop, Tim-Tim!" she crowed in a high falsetto, "Sister has had enough of your nonsense!"

Gretchen was triumphant until she became aware of the adults in the room staring at her. Uncle John winced at the sound of her winning cheer and even Daddy had looked up at her words—he'd completely ignored Timothy falling on his head. What had she done now? Little Miss Perfect, she was. She had excellent grades, impeccable manners and a genuine affection that she extended to most, yet she still felt as if the ones who knew her best sometimes looked at her like she was an undetonated bomb.

She'd just tumbled the most annoying little ass on the face of the planet off the sofa. It wasn't like she'd killed anyone for heaven's sake! Not like some people, _Uncle John_ . Murdering defenseless old cab drivers even if they were working for some fabulously insane criminal mastermind. Yeah, that's right. She'd heard about that bit of business recently and how Daddy and Uncle John had become friends. It was amazing how much she and Timothy didn't know about their dad, really. He was actually pretty famous, mostly because of Uncle John's blog. _Judge not lest ye be judged, Johnny-Boy!_ Cried a gleeful voice in her head, and then she felt guilty, but she really was just about done with these uncles.

Gretchen ended up giving Uncle John a sheepish smile (Dad was already engrossed in his work again), and planted a bare foot in Timothy's face when he tried to pull her off of her perch. "Gerf off mee!" Timothy grunted. Uncle John flinched.

It was subtle, their discomfort with her. In fact, someone without her skills of observation would see nothing to suggest Uncle John or Uncle Mycroft viewed her differently from Timothy, and to be honest, it _could_ be because she was a girl. Uncle Mycroft was not particularly warm to anyone, and he'd made sure that she had every advantage given to Timothy. There was no favoritism in the division of resources. To be fair, Uncle John was much friendlier than he was when she was a child, and his own Susannah was giving him fits at the moment, so it could be the gender issue, though in her heart of hearts—and it was a big, empathetic loving heart-Gretchen knew there was more to it.

Anyway, there _was_ Mummy, Daddy, Aunt Mary, Mrs. Hudson, Uncle Greg—they didn't frown unexpectedly at her when she giggled or announced that she had a pivotal part as the villain in the school play. She still loved her fairy tales and acting came fairly naturally, though her love of entomology still took precedence. She loved bugs. She had a pet tarantula (who played a pivotal part as the villain in Timothy's wake up call). Mum and Dad approved and often explained how the study of insects assisted forensic investigation.

She had asked her mum once if John and Mycroft liked Timothy better because he looked like dad and she didn't. Mum had been sorting laundry in the master bedroom at the time, but her hands stilled when Gretchen asked the question. Mum didn't answer for a moment, looking down to gather her thoughts.

"There's something of that, I think," she said quietly. She looked up at Gretchen briefly and looked down again, twisting one of Dad's undershirts in her hands.

"John loves your father very much. They have a friendship like—" she held out her arms expansively and shook her head before breaking off in a laugh, "it transcends friendship. I think John sees Sherlock in Timothy, sees what he loves best in Sherlock repeated in the son." She smiled softly to herself as she considered her son and her husband.

Then she looked up at her daughter, "And Uncle Mycroft…well, who knows what he thinks about anything?" She laughed again, but there was an edge of bitterness in it before she sighed, "And he loves your father more than anything, despite how they act with each other."

"I don't look like Dad at all," pressed Gretchen, glum. Molly smiled at the girl, but there was a false brightness in Molly's smile. Gretchen wasn't stupid. Mum was putting on a brave face.

"You look like me," laughed Molly, "Sorry about that!" She reached out to brush a long straight lock of brown hair behind Gretchen's ear, "but you do act like Sherlock. More than you might think."

Gretchen nodded. She knew—she was very smart, near genius, in fact. She was very skilled in the art of deduction. She could be quite passionate, but still, it would have been nice to look a little like him. She adored the man. Not that she minded looking like Mum. Mum was very pretty—Dad thought so, you could tell in the way he looked at her, especially when she wasn't looking at him. His eyes would linger on her profile, memorizing the motion of her hands as she prepped a slide or smoothed back Timothy's mop of curls—it wasn't a grand romance outwardly—they didn't talk about what they felt or kiss each other in public like Aunt Mary and Uncle John. It was in the way they anticipated each other's needs when they were working in the lab or the way he corrected himself when he finally went too far and she told him off—Dad didn't change what he was doing for just anyone, not even his children. No, it was Molly who made him behave himself. It was also in the way Daddy's eyes would linger on Gretchen, smiling at her "Molly features," reaching out to playfully tweak her "Molly nose." He seemed delighted by her resemblance to her mother. Seeing himself in Timothy often made him groan dramatically and ask what he'd done to deserve such a fate ("Do you really need to ask?" laughed Mum).

Seeing that Gretchen remained somber in spite of her reassurances that Gretchen had much in common with Sherlock, Molly had launched into a lecture on genetics and the way genetic factors manifested themselves, and…Gretchen only half listened. She'd heard it before.

* * *

Gretchen and Timothy sat in the airport, waiting for their flight to Paris. They were being shipped off to a language institute and then would spend a few weeks with some cousins and great-aunts on father's side, getting to know the family and practicing their French. Mummy had wanted to go and wait with them, but Daddy told her not to be sentimental, they would be fine, and besides, he and Mummy would be joining them in few weeks time for a much needed vacation, but in the meantime, they were going to enjoy being in the flat without half-grown children fighting with each other and tearing down the walls (_Pot calling the kettle black_, said Timothy tartly). With that said, Dad rather briskly packed them off in a cab, and then wrapping an arm around Mummy's waist, escorted her back upstairs for some alone time. Timothy gagged at the thought, but Gretchen found it very sweet. They'd been married for over sixteen years, and despite their apparent differences, they fitted each other very well.

In the terminal, Timothy sat with is long legs spread, hands on knees, eyes staring ahead. He was attempting to go into his "cognitive cathedral," his word for mind palace. It was an awkward and ridiculous title, but Timothy was obstinate, and he wasn't going to be accused of copying dad. He was his own man. Gretchen thought he was a pig-headed little tit, but she did understand, a little. It was difficult to live in the shadow of greatness, especially when Timothy was compared to dad almost daily. Gretchen might suffer through odd stares and fearful glances from others. Timothy suffered from being considered a mini-Sherlock, which he was—a bit, but he was also his mother's son. Despite his theatrics, he had a tendency to be shy. He was just a boy, not an icon like his dad. He hated the newspaper reporters almost as much as dad did, not that they came around much, usually only after a high-profile case. Uncle Mycroft tended to keep them away.

Bored with watching her brother frown his way into his "cathedral," Gretchen took to observing the other passengers, playing the game she often played with Dad when they traveled together—guessing where they were going, the relationships between the travelers. Unfortunately, there weren't very many people of interest this early in the morning.

Then Gretchen spotted a striking blonde woman, covered in furs, who moved like a cat through the VIP section of the airport. She'd just disembarked from a flight from Russia? Maybe—somewhere cold and Gretchen thought that a flight from Moscow had just arrived. The woman wasn't a real blonde, Gretchen could tell. The blonde dye was expensive, a very good job it was, but the skin tone didn't match—she was a little washed out. The eyebrows were a little too brassy. This woman had something to hide. Indeed, she was moving fairly quickly, looking down, heading to make her connection to…Gretchen paused to consider, the Americas—north or south? Gretchen eyed her hand luggage, carried by an auburn haired woman wearing expensive shoes. Mum didn't wear shoes like that—they hurt her feet when she stood long hours in the morgue or lab. North America, then. Maybe Canada.

The woman had caught Gretchen's eye, but it was Timothy, scowling and staring into space that had caught the attention of the woman. She stopped short, turned and frankly stared at the boy-who gave up his attempt to take a mental vacation and frowned up at the blonde. He opened his mouth to say something rude (_What're you looking at, cat-face_, was on the tip of his tongue he told Gretchen later), but his sister put a warning hand on his knee. This woman was…dangerous. Gretchen didn't know how she knew, but some animal instinct in her raised its hackles when she came near.

The woman had been probably been very beautiful once, though she was a little too thin, a little too sharp-featured to be considered so now. Still, she had that talent of making people think she was beautiful, it was kind of a storytelling magic that some people had. Dad could do that sometimes when he was disguising himself, going undercover to solve a case—Dad didn't usually strive for beauty though. He could be seen as foolish or friendly or weak. Often he was trying to make people underestimate him. This woman didn't want anyone to underestimate her. She was like the Snow Queen from Gretchen's old book of fairy tales, and her teeth flashed and her eyes were mirror bright. Gretchen shivered.

"And who are you?" purred the woman, taking a step nearer. Her musky perfume floated towards Gretchen and she sneezed. The woman flicked a cold gaze at the girl for a moment before turning her attention back to the boy.

"Who wants to know?" Timothy asked. He had no patience with coy lady antics. He was pragmatic, and Lord knew he lived with too many women, Gretchen, Mum, Mrs. Hudson, Aunt Mary, and even Aunt Anthea—he knew too much about women to ever find them mysterious on the basis of their looks alone. He was awash in women, and he had no patience for this cougarish flirtation, was suspicious of its origin. Too many reporters had tried to get the inside scoop to the Holmes Heir. He was a striking boy, blue-eyed, dark curly hair, his father's son, undeniably, though he was tempered by a sweetness of the lips, the impish tilt of his nose that could only have come from his mother. The girls and the ladies found him irresistible. He was bored with such attentions, especially if they didn't suit an immediate purpose, and this sharp-edged woman, gobbling him up with her eyes did not appear to have anything he wanted.

"You must be the son of Sherlock Holmes. You are the very image of him," the woman smiled with her lips. They were painted a very deep red. It didn't go with her hair, at all, thought Gretchen, her eyes roving critically as she was ignored by the woman. Like Timothy had never heard that before.

"I knew your father a long time ago." Not like he hadn't heard that either. Timothy scowled at the blonde.

"So?" he replied shortly. Gretchen, for once, found herself pleased with her brother's lack of tact.

The woman continued , "Why the frown, my fine fellow? I bet I could get you to smile." The corners of Gretchen's mouth turned down. Well, that was…inappropriate. This woman had money, a lot of money, maybe more money than Uncle Mycroft, but she was vulgar. Gretchen was unimpressed.

"You wear too much eye-make up, " blurted out Timothy rudely. The woman's smile became brittle as she showed her teeth, and her eyes glittered as she turned to glance at her traveling companion. Gretchen felt a glow of warmth for her brother. Say what you will about him, he was a good judge of character.

"How charming," the woman replied drily. "He_ must_ be a Holmes," she said snidely as an aside to the woman next to her. "But what about you dear, are you his girlfriend?" She was condescending and seductive at the same time as she turned her attention to the brown-eyed girl next to her. Gretchen didn't like it.

Gretchen bared her teeth in a feral smile worthy of Mycroft Holmes, "Oh, no. No. No. Tim is my _little_ brother, you see. Please forgive his rudeness. He really is just a child," _you old pervert_, she added vindictively in her head.

"Sister! Well, Sherlock _has_ been busy in the past twenty years. How funny! I'd seen some of the articles of course, but I didn't imagine him to be so…domestic." She said the word with a twist of her mouth that suggested she had tasted something bad.

The woman squinted at Gretchen. The old familiar feeling of being dissected by a glance came over Gretchen and for once, Little Miss Perfect had had it. Her chin tilted down and she sneered, a full on Holmesian sneer, looking up at the woman from underneath her neatly arched black brows, "I'm afraid I don't see what's so funny, Miss?" her canines flashed pearly white, "and how _do_ you know my father?"

The woman's own painted eyebrows drew together. She seemed startled by what she read in Gretchen's face, and she said in a voice that had lost its sneer, that held a note of curiosity in it, "I believe_ your_ father and I were business associates." She stared hard at Gretchen for a beat, before glancing at Timothy again, "and I _know_ that_**his**_ father was an old…friend, of mine."

Gretchen continued to glower, not liking the insinuations in the woman's tone but refusing to rise to whatever bait this woman was offering. The Holmes children were not unused to weirdos coming out of the woodwork to say something about their dad.

The blonde looked sharply into Gretchen's face again, a baffled and somewhat worried expression crossing her fine, sharp features. The woman looked about nervously before she assumed her mantle of indifference and hurried off to make her flight, her assistant hastening behind—leaving Gretchen with a cold, icy sliver of doubt in her heart.

"What they hell was that about?" Timothy asked irritably. Gretchen shook her head. She didn't know, but she did know that she didn't want to go to France anymore. She wanted her Mummy.


	4. Chapter 4

They had finished their course with the language institute, three weeks of intensive study and sight seeing had left Gretchen with little time to ponder over the cold doubt in her heart planted by the icy woman at the airport. She'd had to bunk in with a roommate, which had been a trial. Gretchen was not unpopular exactly, but she wasn't wildly fond of people either. She was a little awkward, a little weird ("Hi! My name is Gretchen Holmes and I like to look at bugs! Have you met my folks? My mum cuts up dead people and Dad's in the papers."), and while she could be friendly and charming, it took some effort. Timothy didn't even try most of the time, though he did have a few good friends. He liked people as a general rule, but he didn't stoop to them. They proved themselves to be interesting and worth his while or he did without.

Now, though, they were alone, or at least alone together, at an old estate in the country. There was the elderly aunt the children had never met before though they'd had a vague knowledge of some distant family in France; Mycroft kept up with her, had visited her regularly throughout the years, though Sherlock didn't even remember she existed until a few months ago when Uncle Mycroft had informed Sherlock of the plans he made for the children. Sherlock had shrugged and delegated to Molly who though uncertain at first, was reassured by Mycroft that it was perfectly safe and that she and Sherlock both were welcome to join the children as a vacation of sorts.

Martine was kind enough, but she was very old_, a crone in an abandoned castle_— piped up Gretchen's inner child, the part of herself that was always a little lost in fantasy,-and while Tante Martine was content to have the young people about, she didn't bother herself to entertain, so Timothy and Gretchen, quite used to entertaining themselves, had spent much of the three days before Mummy and Daddy arrived roaming the outdoors, wading in the lake, climbing trees, and as they were doing this afternoon, capturing specimens for Gretchen to study. It was idyllic, almost out of a dream thought Gretchen. She would have been perfectly happy except for the worry that now had time to bloom in the quiet and peace of the country.

Gretchen and Timothy had traipsed over the property for the better part of the day, but now they were tired and hungry, and the brother and sister were resting on the back steps, nets and collecting jars nearby, enjoying the sunshine before they went inside. It was quiet and peaceful—even Timothy seemed calm—but the quiet gave her time to think, time to wonder at the blonde woman's words, repeat to herself the old story her Mummy made up, just for her, about the golden queen, the great knight and the broken man, except here in real life, it was Gretchen who had ice in her soul. Gretchen wasn't a fool. She could interpret and remembering Mummy's special story and the woman in the airport, putting it together with Uncle Mycroft's stares and Uncle John's worry, well, it all began to point to a conclusion that she didn't want to believe.

"Is there something wrong?" Timothy asked her abruptly. He'd been watching her brood, silently for a long time before he spoke up. "You seem—not okay."

Gretchen turned her head to look at her brother, somewhat surprised at his tone. It's not that he couldn't be sympathetic, but it was unexpected. He was a fourteen-year-old boy—not at an age known for sensitivity and tact. Well, that and he was raised by Sherlock Holmes, also not known for sensitivity and tact no matter what age he was. Luckily for all concerned, Molly Hooper was Timothy's mother, and compassion and empathy were some of her greatest strengths that she passed on to her children. It tended to balance out.

"What do you mean?" she asked, knowing full well what he meant. She wasn't okay. Not at all. She continued to look at him noticing that despite the blue eyes, the curly hair, he looked a lot like Mum at that moment—his expression earnest, his mouth sweet as he struggled to explain what he meant. Her heart squeezed. She wanted her mum. She didn't want her mum. She didn't know what she wanted.

"You've been different since we've come to France. I thought you were just missing home," he paused as she shook her head, no, that wasn't it—not entirely. "You've been upset since that-that woman at the airport talked to us." He reached out to her, laid a long-fingered hand on her shoulder. "You don't believe what she said, do you?"

Gretchen's ducked her head, chin on chest—so like Sherlock, if she only knew—and felt tears prick at her eyes. "What do you mean?" she asked again. She didn't look up.

"That we have different fathers, for God's sake!" laughed Timothy incredulously, "She was probably just another fanatic, stalker, reporter—they're always coming out unexpectedly. Remember that lady who kept knitting us those ear-hats and waiting outside the front door every Christmas? That's part of the reason we moved to the bigger house!"

Gretchen laughed at the memory of that silly woman and her silly knitting (she'd always liked those hats, though Daddy and Mummy didn't like strangers getting too close to the children), but it was a laugh that turned into a strangled sob and she laid her face on her knees and wept. She didn't have a right to wear those hats.

Timothy was utterly baffled. There was absolutely no reason for his highly intelligent, emotionally resilient sister to be so utterly broken by the random comment of some random freak in the airport. They'd dealt with outsiders being rude or overly familiar before. Their dad was a kind of celebrity, like D-list level or something, but a public figure, nonetheless. These things happened.

Gretchen raised her tear streaked face, her round brown eyes red-rimmed and wet. "I'm a cuckoo." She almost laughed, but it came out as a sniffle. Look at her, sniveling. She disgusted herself.

Timothy's lip curled in confusion. "You certainly are, but what do you mean?"

"A cuckoo bird!" she raised her voice as her brother shook his head, not getting it, or refuting it. No, he got it alright. "Oh, for goodness' sake, some birds use a kind of mimcry—"

Timothy rolled his eyes, "Skip the metaphor and get to the point. Why would you even believe such a stupid idea?" He sounded like Daddy and it was a comfort and a torture to hear.

"I don't look like Daddy." She said flatly—let's lay out the facts. Most people see but do not observe. She was going to lay it out and have Timothy see for himself, see if he came to the same conclusions.

"No. So what? I don't look like Mum. I think I looked a little like Uncle Mycroft when I woke up the other day—the ears…" he shuddered.

"Yes, you do look like Mum—parts of your face are hers," disagreed Gretchen. " People just notice Daddy's features more—he's flashier—genetically speaking." Timothy shrugged. Again, _so what?_ His expression said. Gretchen took a deep breath and trying to control a sudden shaky feeling that overcame her, she reached into her satchel which held her computer tablet and other reference materials she used to identify her insects.

"I don't look anything like Daddy, but I think, I think I may look a little like this…" She quickly navigated to a saved image and handed it over to Timothy. He perused the article the photograph illustrated and snorted derisively.

"Moriarty!" laughed Tim. "You've gone mad. Have you gotten into Tante Martine's absinthe? That stuff will make you crazy, I hear." He tried to hand the device back to his sister. "This is stupid. You always had your head in those fairy tales and stories and here you are finally, lost in fantasy. Ridiculous!"

"Don't make fun, Timothy," said Gretchen seriously, "but look here—he died 17 years ago. He was the one who made Daddy fake his death. He _dated_ Mummy to get to Dad." She'd been reading Uncle John's blog, the old one in his archives. There was so much she hadn't known. Why hadn't she known? Was she too self-centered to care about her parents' past—partly, but mostly it had never been relevant—Dad had taught them to ignore, delete useless information-until now.

Timothy was staring at the photo of the man again-Moriarty. It was taken at the trial, and he stood refined and elegant in his grey suit, a twinkle in his black eyes.

"The timeline is off, Gretchen," protested Timothy, "He committed suicide when dad jumped off the roof of St. Bart's. Your birthday would be off if he was your dad. "

Gretchen hesitated. She had considered this. "Daddy didn't die when everyone thought he had. What if this—Moriarty didn't either."

Timothy was bent over the image, he'd enlarged it to look at the face more closely. He looked up at Gretchen and studied her face. Timothy had never her looked at her like this before and for a moment the resemblance to Uncle Mycroft _was _rather amazing. The little splinter of ice in her heart, planted by the cold blonde woman's comment, twisted as she saw her brother making connections, the same ones she had made herself. If you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true, she thought to herself, and knew Timothy was thinking something similar.

"Hmm. I guess, there may be something around the eyes. Pull back your hair, from your forehead." Gretchen obligingly caught up her long dark hair in a ponytail, pulled straight back from her brow.

"Well…yeah, the forehead is distinct, maybe." Timothy stopped suddenly and threw the tablet on the ground. "This is idiotic, Gretchen! You could do this with any random stranger. It's not like brown eyes and a big forehead are uncommon features in the human race!"

He was upset. He saw it too.

"This isn't a random stranger, Tim. It's someone who knew Daddy, who dated Mummy. It's someone they never talk about even though all the press shows his involvement with the greatest mysteries Daddy ever solved." She looked at her brother with fearful eyes, "They tell us everything else. Why not this?"

"I don't know. It's old history, boring, irrelevant—Dad deletes stuff he doesn't need and Mum's too busy to worry about some bloke who took her out a few times decades ago." He was panicking, she could tell, but he was trying to stay calm, "Besides what does that say about Mum!" Timothy loved his mum. A lot.

"Uncle Mycroft gives me those looks. Makes me feel like a bug under glass." Gretchen stated solemnly.

"He looks at everyone like that, Gretchen." Timothy wasn't going to admit it, though he knew it was true, had said as much to her before.

"No, this is a special stare just for me. You know it," she insisted.

Timothy stubbornly shook his head.

"Why does Uncle John act like he's afraid of me? ME! And he served in Afghanistan!" Gretchen felt hysteria rising.

Timothy shook his head again, "You're a girl. He doesn't know how to deal with girls—look at how he deals with Susannah!"

"That's the old lie Mummy and Aunt Mary give us. It's bollocks. He deals with Susannah the way he does because he's a ladies man, and the fact that his daughter has boobs now terrifies him because he knows boys like him exist—that's the gist of what Daddy says." She was being very serious, but as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted it. Timothy was going to use it to change the subject.

"True. And you really don't have any boobs to scare him with anyway…OW!" Gretchen grabbed in the soft part of his arm, just below the armpit and pinched.

"Shut it. I told you not to make jokes. This is serious."

"Say it is true, Gretchen. What does that make you? What does that make mum?" He was angry, angry with the idea, angry with Gretchen for bringing it up.

Gretchen tucked her chin into her chest again and stared at her hands, "I don't know."

* * *

Gretchen had kept her conclusions to herself throughout the rest of their stay in France. If Mummy or Daddy noticed her silence or Timothy's moodiness, they didn't say anything. It wasn't exactly unusual behavior from them.

They were home again, and Gretchen had draped herself across her parents' bed, watching her mother unpack her travel bags. Her make case, her jewelry—not that there was much there—mum kept things natural, generally, but she liked to have everything in order. Daddy would help later, sorting her things into their most logical categories. Dad's sock and underwear drawers were something to be admired, though woe to anyone dared disturb them.

It was domestic and homey and happy. The strains of the violin drifted down the hall. Gretchen felt safe, safe enough to ask her question. She took a deep breath.

"Where is my father?"

"Daddy's in the living room trying very hard not to say something psychologically scarring to your brother. I do think Timothy may be even better than Sherlock at the violin," Molly smiled with pride, cocking her head to listen. The smile was genuine, but underneath it lurked a different emotion, something fearful.

The question came out wrong. She was nervous. "Let me ask it a different way. Who is my father?"

"What a silly question, Gretchen. What are you on about?" Molly was soft and earnest, the same Molly and Mummy she'd been since…well, since forever, but there was a sharp edge to her voice. She dropped her task and turned to face her daughter.

Gretchen sighed and then nodded. Okay. Let's try again. She tried a different tactic—one that would appeal to her mother's scientific mind.

"Who made you pregnant with me? Who, biologically speaking, fathered me?" She asked calmly and directly. Molly's brown eyes widened. Gretchen stared back with her own brown eyes, unsmiling and determined to get an answer.

Molly's expression hardened and her lips went tight before she looked down quickly. When she looked up again, her eyes were damp and her face had softened, she looked…fragile. Mum never seemed fragile. Everyone knew that Dad was the one most likely to fall apart in an emotional moment. Mum was the backbone and Gretchen had shaken her. For the first time, Gretchen was honestly frightened. She'd suspected, worried, but this terrible look on her mother's face. This was confirmation.

"Nevermind, Mummy. Nevermind. I'm sorry. I don't know why…" she began, but her mother put out a gentle hand and cupped her cheek. Mummy's eyes ran over her face, so much like Uncle Mycroft or Uncle John (but never Dad. Dad never analyzed her features looking for a stranger's face, because that was what the others were doing, wasn't it. Was it because he didn't want to know or because he didn't care? And if he didn't care was it because he loved her and mum too much or not enough? Oh God.)

"Who set you on this line of questions?" Mummy's voice calm, but she was very terrible in her stillness. Mummy was furious. Not with Gretchen, never with Gretchen. "Was it Mycroft? John?" Those warm brown eyes had gone flat—no sparkle at all.

"No! No, mum—it was at the airport, in the terminal, there was this woman—" Gretchen began. She described the woman, recounted the exchange and how the woman had looked at Timothy, looked at her. She told about her own digging into Uncle John's case files. Mummy's face was pale as death, and her eyes…oh God, she'd never dreamed Mummy could look like that.

"How did she know Daddy? Who was she?" Gretchen asked, voice small. Her mother was in another place right now. Wheels were turning, her sweet, smiling mouth was grim.

"No one of any importance at all, love. No one you will ever hear from again," Mummy's voice said, but it didn't sound like Mummy. This was a wolf whose cubs had been threatened. This was a queen preparing to deliver a death sentence.

"Mum, mummy!" Molly's eyes snapped back to her daughter. Mummy was quiet and calm, but righteous anger radiated off her. Gretchen almost couldn't look at her mum. The quiet rage was too awful to see.

"Who is my father?" Gretchen asked again, afraid of her mum, but she had to know and really who else was there to ask?

Mum was made of steel, surgical steel under that soft sweetness, but she was upset. It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to see that. Gretchen Holmes saw all too clearly the way her mum's pulse had sped up in her neck and the way her hands clutched the bedspread, bunching it up in her capable little hands. Those hands could cut, very calmly and efficiently, a grown man, a grown woman, even a little child into pieces and break them down—see what made them tick and what made them stop ticking. But she was scared, scared of her daughter's question. Scared of the answer, it seemed.

"I ask because I figure you are the only one who really could know the answer. Who is my father?"

Molly opened her mouth to speak. Her voice squeaked as she began "I-I…" she smiled bitterly a moment at herself, and began again, "I'm not sure," she admitted.

"You're not sure?" Gretchen blinked stupidly, "What do you mean you're not sure? Mum!" She was shocked. Mum wasn't the sort to sleep around. Mum was the original Miss Perfect. Wasn't she? What was the truth anymore?

"It doesn't matter, Gretchen. Don't you see, Daddy loves me, loves you. It's…it's the truth, he is your father, whatever the biological facts might be." Molly looked panicked. Mouth opened. Words tumbled out. She was flinching as she heard herself saying the words. She reached out with her hands as if she could take them back into herself.

"Might be? Might be, Mum? My God! You really don't know?" Gretchen exploded and she felt her Mum's eyes taking her apart piece by piece, her eyes, her chin, the shape of her hands.

That dissecting gaze was really all the answer Gretchen needed. Mum knew. If she didn't know, she'd have the tests run. Mum was a scientist—she looked for answers, craved them. Mum literally cut people apart to solve the mystery of their deaths. Mum didn't like unresolved questions. Mum's eyes running over her face, her hands, cutting her down into her parts told her everything.

"I don't look like Sherlock." Gretchen said quietly, "At all."

"You look like me," said Molly hotly, "and though I suppose I could apologize for that again, I won't. Don't be foolish, Gretchen. You are familiar with genetics. Genes manifest themselves differently—you cannot go by looks alone. And I won't take any blood tests, nor will your dad. I suppose Uncle Mycroft would be delighted to help you out, but I warn you, you may find yourself cut out of his will " she laughed that terrible laugh again. "Or you could con Tim into giving you a cheek swab, I suppose. I won't help you though."

Gretchen did look like her Mum. She was a mini Molly, just as Timothy was a mini-Sherlock, but just as Molly's lips, Molly's nose softened Tim, made him an individual and not just clone of his father, so too did Gretchen's round, dark-brown eyes, fine-fingered square palmed hands, and high forehead mark her as something, someone's other than Molly's child alone.

"Stay here, Gretchen. I need to make a call and then I will speak with you in a moment." Molly tried to smile at her daughter, but it couldn't quite stay on her face. "I promise." And then she was gone, closing the door behind her.

Gretchen curled up in her parent's bed, pillow over her head as she heard her mother speaking low and rapidly in the next room. Tears trickled down her nose.

"Take care of it. Now. No evasions. No tricks. I will want confirmation that this business is finished." Gretchen trembled to hear the wrath in her gentle mother's voice. Mum was blazing, hot, but Gretchen was shaking with cold.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: This is the final chapter of this little tale. **

"_So far, about morals, I know only that what is moral is what you feel good after and what is immoral is what you feel bad after."-_**Ernest Hemingway**

Two days later, Daddy disappeared on an unexpected trip with Uncle Mycroft. No one would tell the children where he had gone, but Gretchen knew it had something to do with her question, something to do with the blonde woman, something to do with Mummy's angry phone call to Uncle Mycroft, something to do with her fury with Daddy behind closed doors after she had had a very long, very difficult conversation with Gretchen. Timothy was packed off to Uncle John's house without giving him a chance to ask any questions himself. As far as Daddy (_Sherlock _whispered her traitorous heart) went, he did not act any differently toward Gretchen, though his eyes followed Molly longingly. He was like a chastised puppy when he looked at Mum, but he didn't speak, not to either of them except for the most basic communications. Molly was similarly quiet—she was worried, angry, sad—so many things mixed up together. Gretchen thought maybe she didn't trust herself to speak.

For almost an entire day after the fateful question, Daddy sat in his mind palace, cut off from everyone, not eating, not sleeping, not talking. When he emerged, he was frenetic energy and impatience, no time to talk, no time to deal with sentiment and emotion. He was on a very important case. And without saying anything at all to Gretchen except, "Good morning," Daddy had disappeared with Uncle Mycroft—he stayed gone for three days. Gretchen spent that time alternately crying into her pillow or cuddled up with Mummy on the sofa watching mindless television—Mum and Dad had the worst taste in television programs. Mum had taken some time off of work to be with her, but it was difficult because neither seemed to know what to say.

She longed for the distraction of school, but it was still the summer holidays. She found some comfort in prepping her specimens for display, mindlessly preparing the syringes, injecting the relaxing fluid into the beetles' appendages, into the moths' thoraxes, readying them to be pinned. She wished she could inject herself with some relaxing fluid and said so to Mummy, who gave her a weak smile, but later that day, as Gretchen sat at Daddy's worktable, spreading and pinning wings, Mummy brought her a cup of chamomile and a little yellow tablet. Gretchen accepted the tea and looked in askance at the pill. Mummy and Daddy did not approve of the frivolous use of drugs—the reason behind that being another somewhat cloudy past event that Gretchen didn't care to ferret out right now. She had enough of the past to deal with at the moment, thank you.

"Just one is okay, Gretchen," said her mother gently, stroking her hair, "I am a medical professional."

"Yeah, but all your patients are dead," smiled Gretchen with her lips, if not her eyes.

"Never heard that one before," sighed Molly, rolling her own eyes, "And you say my jokes are stale."

"Not stale, just weird," the smile was beginning to reach Gretchen's eyes, and she swallowed the pill and leaned back against her Mummy, letting the small woman's warm, strong arms come around to embrace her. Molly rested her chin on Gretchen's shoulder, looking over her work with a critical and approving eye. They stayed in that position for a very long time.

Three days after he left, Daddy and Uncle Mycroft returned. Mummy was sitting in Dad's favorite chair, working on her laptop—she was on leave from the lab, but there was always research. Her hair was in a messy bun and she wore her glasses, but when Daddy came through the door, Mummy's entire demeanor changed from frumpy academic to stately monarch. Daddy went straight to Mummy and kneeled before her, a knight returning from his quest. He took her hand and looked up, "It's been taken care of. I'd forgotten—deleted it. Please forgive me."

Molly looked down at her husband with a hard light in her eyes—she was still angry, very much so, with him. "Where is my proof? We don't need any other surprises."

Her voice was sweet, sweet, sweet and so hurt. _Yes, Huntsman_, thought Gretchen to herself from where she was snuggled into the corner of the sofa, flipping through a magazine but not really reading , _where is the heart in the box?_ But her Mummy wasn't an evil vain queen. And that blonde woman was no Snow White. Gretchen felt a little dizzy.

Uncle Mycroft grinned, teeth glinting, "I think you'll find all you need has been delivered to St. Bart's."

Mummy started and looked at Uncle Mycroft, surprised. Uncle Mycroft nodded shortly with a glint in his eye. _Holy crap, was there a heart in a box?_ Gretchen's mouth went dry. Who were these people she thought was her family. Who was she? Good God.

"And you're sure there were no…substitutions?" Mummy was asking, and she flicked a cold glance down at her husband. He shook his head definitively-no.

"Many, many, many people wanted that particular loose end tied up. They were more than happy to help. Believe me. You'll find the proof is in near perfect condition—we just await your approval and your signature, Dr. Holmes," Uncle Mycroft assured Mum.

Mummy looked down at Sherlock, eyebrows raised, a question in her eyes.

"Don't be stupid," he said bluntly, and she pursed her lips at his words, "I have no regrets. She should have stayed dead to the world. She didn't and now-" he broke off, looking at his daughter who was observing, understanding all too well, "Less said the better, really." He seemed resolved in himself, but his eyes watched Mummy eagerly. Had he pleased her? He needed a pat on the head. Or a token of some kind.

Mummy continued to look at him doubtfully. She was very lovely and very terrible, oddly regal in her maroon cardigan. She stared down her nose at the man sitting at her feet.

"Molly, The game was over long, long ago. She shouldn't have made any move toward me or my children. You play the game. You run the risk of losing. She lost." He smiled savagely at Mum. "Fair's fair. " He turned to look at Gretchen again and it was the soft, loving look he wore. The one he saved for her and Mummy.

Mummy smiled at dad, a genuine, forgiving smile. The terrible queen was gone and she was Mummy again, sweet, awkward, loving Mummy whose eyes sparkled with tears. "You are a good man," she said simply, and raised his hand to kiss it. Dad blinked at her, his expression didn't change, but he had his reward, his Molly was pleased. Gretchen could read him quite well—he wasn't that great at hiding his feelings, not really, not if you knew him. Molly stood then, briskly and purposefully, and went right up to Mycroft. Standing on tiptoe, she kissed his cheek.

"And so are you." Uncle Mycroft raised his eyebrows, surprised and pleased by her kiss. Uncle Mycroft was _very _good at hiding his feelings, but Gretchen could tell that Mummy's kiss had been unexpected but welcome.

"Well, anything for family, you know." He looked at Gretchen then and smiled, a real smile, still shrewd, a bit reptilian, but his eyes were taking in her lips, her nose—he was seeing Mummy in her, and he liked what he saw.

* * *

A few days later, Molly and Gretchen were looking down at a gravestone in a nondescript corner of the same graveyard where a headstone for Sherlock Holmes stood. Gretchen bent down to brush a cobweb off and cupped the little spider she had displaced in her hands before releasing it and standing up to join her mum. Molly took her hand.

"He did terrible things. He murdered." Gretchen stated bluntly.

"He did." Mum's answer was short. Honest.

"He was a madman." Gretchen uttered the facts, trying to make it not hurt.

"Most of the time, yes," Mummy wasn't going to dissemble, not anymore. "Not always though. He was wounded. I think he had been hurt very badly. Doesn't make it right what he did, but mercy isn't about forgetting, it's about forgiving. "

It crossed Gretchen's mind that Mum hadn't been very forgiving of the blonde woman, but that was a thought to take out and examine another day. Mother's mercy didn't go far when her children were in danger, it seemed. But then, it was her act of mercy toward this man in the grave, her father, that saved the life of the man she called Daddy and probably many others as well. It definitely gave her life. Compassion and vengeance springing from the same well. It was difficult to reconcile. Mummy in her fuzzy jumpers and oxfords as a force of loving justice was an idea a little too bizarre to handle as she stood staring down at a stranger's (her father's) grave.

"What was good about him?" asked Gretchen. Molly took her daughter's hand but she continued to look down at the gravestone, trying to remember.

"He had a nice smile—and he could be a complete sweetheart, sincerely. Even after I knew what he was, he had moments." Mummy smiled a tender smile, replaying something in her mind's eye. Gretchen had never seen an expression quite like that on Mummy's face before.

"So, he never…I mean, he didn't, _attack_ you or anything?" the question she'd been wanting to ask, but just hadn't had the courage to yet.

Molly shook her head vehemently—"Never." Gretchen looked closely at her mother, looking for any tells that she was lying. She found none. It was the truth then. Good.

"He was smart, so smart. Every bit as smart as Daddy. He didn't use it for good, but he was very, very clever. Devious, I guess." Molly sighed, what a waste of potential. She smiled though, "you come by your intelligence naturally, though Daddy's influence has refined whatever was already inherent in you, I'm sure."

Molly looked up at Gretchen again and continued, "He was very handsome. Nice hair—thick and black, straight. Good teeth. You saw the pictures. "

Gretchen nodded. He had been very fine-looking. She felt a little bit proud of that is some strange way.

"Your eyes, brows, obviously, are a lot like his—your hands, too. Maybe the teeth—you certainly didn't need braces like I did—or poor Timothy." Molly studied Gretchen's face, lovingly tracing the shape of her eyes, her nose, her lips.

Gretchen nodded, considering her hands. She flexed the fingers of the hand her mum wasn't holding.

"He was a good kisser." Molly said thoughtfully.

"Mum!"

"Well, he was. You want to know what was good. I'm telling the truth." There was a slight blush on Mummy's cheeks as she grinned at Gretchen.

Gretchen briefly wondered what his lips would feel like on her forehead. Kissing her goodnight the way Daddy often did. She couldn't imagine it.

"He knew computers, always helped me out of a jam at work when he was in IT. Put me in quite a jam in my personal life, but I guess there's give and take with any relationship." It had been almost twenty years—Molly could joke, though Gretchen didn't feel like laughing yet. It was still new for her.

"He knew how to tell a good story. His voice could be very lovely. Different from Daddy's—higher, but still nice. Sometimes the Irish came out very strong. Other times not. It depended on who he was being at the moment. He was rather obsessed with fairy tales—a lot like you in that way, I think." Gretchen felt her heart speed up at this. "I don't see any of the bad, Gretchen. His evil sprung from a mind without enough to do, no challenge great enough. Like Dad says, it was an engine that raced and burned itself out. You are not on the same level as James Moriarty or Sherlock Holmes. You are so very clever, but I don't think you need to fear your mind pulling itself apart—you are not too special, too rare to survive. I mean this in the best possible way, but you are fairly ordinary. I'm afraid my genes are to blame for that, but I'm not sorry."

They were quiet for a while, each alone with their thoughts. Being ordinary in this family is really quite extraordinary thought Gretchen with a rueful grin. That was okay, then. She had just one more question that she really needed to ask her mum, and she wasn't sure would like either potential answer.

"Did you love him?" she finally asked.

"I might have if I'd known him longer." Mum paused, considering, " I think I could have loved Jim. Not Moriarty. Never him," Mum's tone was a bit sharper than it had been.

"But they were the same per-" Gretchen started to protest.

"Do you want the truth or the facts?" Mum cut her off, " I'm telling you the truth. Jim was a love. Moriarty was not. "

_Protesting too much, Mum?_ It stood to reason that she'd be attracted to the same things she loved in Daddy, and as much as she adored the man, Daddy was no angel. James Moriarty certainly was not.

There was silence between the two as Molly stared at the gravestone and thought.

"Jim liked to laugh," she said in surprise, as if it was something she'd forgotten.

" He had a good sense of humor?" asked Gretchen.

Molly's smile was wry, "Well, he always laughed at my jokes."

"So, that's a no, then." Gretchen's heart felt warmer than it had in a long time.

"Ha-ha, Sherlock. No, but Moriarty's jokes weren't very funny either, that's true."

"Do you love Daddy more?" Gretchen knew the answer. She didn't really know why she asked the question. In the most secret part of her heart, she wasn't sure what she wanted to hear her mother say.

"Of course. But why should that affect what I feel for you?" Molly kept a tight grip on Gretchen's hand.

Gretchen shrugged. It didn't affect her mother's feelings—she'd never felt left out with Mummy or Daddy. They did love her, just as much as Timothy—of course, Timothy was mighty hard to love, so that could have something to do with it, but she didn't think so. Mummy's heart was large enough to love them all equally. And Daddy loved Mummy so much that it he could love her too. She thought she could live with that.

Molly squeezed her daughter's hand. "Do you want to go see where Daddy's grave was or…is, I guess?" Molly asked brightly. "Mycroft left the tombstone up. Said we'd need it one day anyway, sooner or later " she grinned. Gretchen smiled, a real smile, and after running her hand gently over the face of the gravestone marked with the name of her father, she went off hand and hand to look at the spot that was her Daddy's grave once upon a time.

* * *

Back home from the cemetery, Molly went to lie down and Gretchen sat in the living room, watching Sherlock wipe down his violin, loosen his bow. He'd been playing when they arrived home, but he stopped when they came through the front door. His eyes questioned Mummy, who nodded at him before going to her room. He beckoned for Gretchen to stay, and after he had put the violin away, he straightened up, as if steeling himself before turning to her.

"Would you like me to tell you a story, Gretchen?" Sherlock asked. "It's a fairy tale. I'm not overly fond of those, as you know. I much prefer facts and reality. But this one seems relevant." He didn't smile, but his expression was soft as watched her, waiting for her response. He was not mocking her. He was not being emotional. He was going to tell her what she needed.

The corners of her mouth pulled down, and she nodded. He sat next to her on the sofa and opened his arms, pulling her to him. Gretchen rested her head on his chest. She could hear his heart thundering, loud and strong. Oh, she loved him. He was her Daddy. He was. She closed her eyes and let his deep, resonant voice pour over her.

"There once was a man who had no heart. He'd been taught from a very young age that caring was not an advantage and that all hearts are broken. Therefore, quite logically, the man believed that it was better not to have one. He cut his out, cut it into pieces before anyone could break it for him and threw those pieces far away from him. He didn't know where they fell." Sherlock looked down at her to see if she followed. Telling fairy tales really wasn't his area. _You'd better be appreciating this_, his eyes seemed to say. She nodded and ventured a small smile.

"There was a broken man with a heart so large that it hurt him, drove him mad with the strength of emotion. He felt too much. He was the heartless man's equal in all ways, except for the heart. The heartless man saw the man with too much heart and thought, very smugly, I must say, that he was proven correct. Caring was not an advantage. " He paused for a moment, lost in thought. Gretchen kept her ear on her Daddy's chest.

"In his loneliness, the man with too much heart slowly turned into a spider, weaving webs, catching people, keeping connections. He was a king over all of those in his web. They clamored for him, wanted his attention. But it was unfulfilling because it was based upon what he could do for them, not for love of him, not truly. They called him Father—no, Daddy, but it wasn't real. Wasn't true. " Sherlock frowned a moment, seeming to remember something before looking down at his daughter again and picking up the thread of the tale. He stroked her hair softly.

"The man with too much heart was so lonely. His intellect was so great that he could not find an equal, anyone able to feel as he felt. He had hoped that he might find a connection with the heartless man, but a man without a heart is not the equal of a man with a heart so large. So he determined to force the heartless man to find the pieces. In fact, the Spider helped the man figure out that the pieces were not so very far from him at all. There was the old woman, the soldier, the good King—they all held pieces of his heart in their protection. But there was one, the beautiful maiden, who held the biggest piece of all. The Spider sensed it, in fact, he had gone to her first of all as a potential owner of the heart, but he missed it. How? I'm not sure, but I suspect it was because the maiden's heart was so large, so strong, the beat of her heart was all the Spider could see, could hear. Here was another with a heart like his, but a heart that was strong, not sick with loneliness, a heart that was patient and kind. She held the piece of the heartless man's heart, but she realized that the Spider's heart needed a place to rest as well. She took a piece of the Spider's heart, eased the burden, just a bit. Did she know what she was doing? Not at first, perhaps. Did the Spider realize? Not entirely. But there came a time when the Spider could not go on anymore. He was too sick, too twisted in his grief. He went to the maiden and gave her his entire heart, gave it all, and sought a permanent rest from his loneliness. She took his heart, gave him in turn her own for a while, and she held him so that he never knew loneliness again."

Gretchen's breath hitched, but she stayed quiet. Waiting for the end. Sherlock continued to stroke her hair, but his arm tightened around her shoulder.

"The Spider gave the maiden a gift, a precious gift she shared with the heartless man, and with the final piece of his heart in place, the heart mended itself, grew strong, and he knew without a doubt that he had a heart strong enough to accept the Spider's gift. Indeed, it was the gift itself that made the man finally understand that love is never a disadvantage. " Silence reigned as he revealed the moral of his tale.

"And there you have it. As a man once said, _The truth is more important than the facts. _ I have told you the truth." Dad looked down at her again. He seemed a little embarrassed. He really wasn't good with sentiment.

She wasn't crying. There was no reason to cry over fairytales, but she buried her face in her daddy's chest and breathed deeply and noisily. His other arm came around her and hugged her tight.

"When I look at you, I choose to see what I love instead of what I fear. " he whispered quietly into her hair. She nodded without looking up.

"And to be perfectly honest, I think I fear seeing myself in Timothy more than…" he paused and then seemed to decide being delicate was pointless, "seeing Moriarty in you."

Gretchen's went very still as her dad acknowledged the name and its connection with her.

"Your mum made something beautiful out of madness. You are her daughter, tempered by kindness and love and you are my daughter clever and quick—and if that is more nurture than nature, what of it? Does it change the result? Change the truth? Besides, the cleverness and sensitivity in you are not from your mother and I alone. And that's not a bad thing. He was my greatest opponent, the only one to match me like that. I-" he paused, searching for the right word,"…appreciate it. I honor the game we had. And I understand very well how, broken and hurting, he would want to turn to Molly."

Gretchen blinked at her father, doubting his generosity. He was jealous, competitive, (_the world's biggest attention hog_, Uncle John once said), even Timothy came in second place next to Dad.

Sherlock frowned at her, knowing what she was thinking, but he continued, "_and_ I understand how in loving him, Molly loved me, saved me, saved many more from being hurt by his death throws. The facts are never as eloquent as the truth, Gretchen. So if you look at the facts, it's sordid. If you look at the truth, it's a very beautiful, if sad, story with a happy ending. The original fairytales were never bloodless or wrapped up neatly. You know that."

She nodded again, and he smiled at her.

"So, who is your father?" He stared at her hard.

"You." She said softly.

"That's right, and you don't frighten me at all. And I'm also Timothy's father, and he scares the hell out of me." He ran a hand through his hair and widened his eyes at the thought of his son.

"Lucky you have Mummy and me to tame him," Gretchen said with a soft, watery laugh.

"Thank God for that!" The somber, dreamy mood was broken. He gave her a small pat before he stood up briskly and began to pace before her.

"I've been thinking that I need a change, maybe we all do." He stopped to look at his daughter very intently.

"What can you tell me about bees?" he grinned.

Gretchen grinned at her Daddy. She knew quite a lot actually. He listened to her as she began to speak, laying out the facts that would inform the next chapter of their lives.


End file.
